Q&A with Estella Sanchez, Founder of Sol Collective

Portrait by Josh Wool

Can you tell us a little bit about the roots of Sol Collective?

It was something I had thought about since I was a teenager. I would fantasize about a space where creatives could come. When I was young, art was such a refuge for me, and I tended to gravitate toward creative people—friends who were making music and photographers and artists—and I loved the idea of having a home for these kinds of folks. 

In my 20s, I had an opportunity to be part of a cultural exchange tour that I created with my godbrothers. Over three years, we took more than 100 artists and other creatives like dancers and poets on these tours through California, New York, Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic and Cuba. We would stop at community centers, galleries, and a lot of different creative spaces where people would gather and we were able to perform, and we were able to meet with people and create murals and have workshops. 

And when I came back to Sacramento, a gathering space [for creatives] was something that I really wanted to have here. The idea of what a creative space could look like completely opened up for me because I saw so many different versions of creative spaces.

I had worked with the Washington Neighborhood Center [a nonprofit founded in 1952 that serves the Alkali Flat and Washington neighborhoods located between downtown and the railyards and provides programs in the arts and culture, education, health and youth development] for years prior to that.

So I rolled this idea of a community gathering space into my master’s thesis at Sacramento State and thought I could research how to provide the services and resources and space that currently isn’t already offered. [Sanchez earned a graduate degree in Educational Leadership & Policy Studies, as well as a bachelor’s in Social Science, also at Sacramento State.] So I opened it up in 2005 and I figured I could afford to pay the rent for a year and then see what happens.

Given that you thought about doing this from a very young age, what do you think led you to choose this path?

I think one factor was being a daughter of immigrants, and not knowing where I fit in. My parents are both from Mexico, and I was born here, in Oak Park. And when you’re a kid of immigrants, you’re not Mexican enough and you’re also not American enough. We don’t always know where we fit in. Our identity is incredibly complex.

It was also influenced by where I grew up. I grew up in California in the ’80s and ’90s with Mexican culture and traditions, but also during the golden era of hip hop, and around cholo culture and lowrider culture in Sacramento. And I really wanted to have a space where we could embrace the complexity of our identity, and I felt like there was such a need for us, as BIPOC [Black, Indigenous, People of Color] people, to have a space where we could fully step into that complexity. So, I feel like it really stems from the need to have a space where it was okay to be ourselves. As Mexicans, we have European roots, we have indigenous roots, and we have African roots. And I think we don’t often get to really know the cultural nuances of the DNA that we carry. 

From the very beginning, [Sol Collective] was multicultural. As a Chicana, of course, I wanted to explore Chicano culture and explore my Mexican roots. But because we are a collective, we have people from all different backgrounds. We really wanted it to be a collective for everyone under the sun.

So that’s where the name Sol Collective comes from? 

Yes. Everyone under the sun.

Where was that first location?

On Del Paso Boulevard. We were open for about three years, then there was a fire and we lost everything, including some incredible artwork that we had archived. And at that time, I had my master’s and my second child, and I was like, “Well, we had a good run.”

You thought that was the end?

Yeah, and I was teaching at the Met Sacramento High School full-time. But then I would continuously get called or emailed by people saying, “Hey, we have this artist coming through and they don’t have anywhere to show [their work],” or “We have a curandera—a Mexican healer—who is going to be in town and wants to teach people about traditional healing,” or “My friend is coming into town, and he’s an incredible graphic designer.” I was getting these calls and it was hard to say no. It was just really hard to find [creative] spaces that were accessible. So in 2009, like I did the first time, I rented a space for a year on a whim—this time on 21st Street [in Curtis Park]. And I was like, “Oh, my God, what did I get myself into?”

I told our board of directors, “Look, everything that we’ve been doing has been around collective effort, and I can put up a chunk of the rent, but I’m going to need help with the rest of it. And if I can’t make it sustainable after a year, then we’ll just be there for a year.” Some board members put in $50, some $100 or $200, and they made up the rest of that rent. Many of them were professors from Sacramento State—really wonderful mentors to me and the community in general, people who were investing time and energy into the space.

We wanted to have a space for community members to come together and have their ideas come to life and be supported. There was so much beauty and richness already existing in our community, and we just needed a space to be able to show it and share it with each other.

But it took a long time to become a self-sustaining venture, yes?

Yes, over the years, it got really tough. I had other full-time jobs, and I didn’t know much about managing a nonprofit. And about six or seven years in, I had to sell my car to pay the rent. I didn’t want to be late on any of those obligations. I had a Volvo SUV and I was so proud of it because it was my first grown-up car, you know?

You had kids at this point and you were also running this organization. How did you get around?

Well, my partner had a car, so we just went down to one car. But I remember being bummed out about it. I had left my job as a full-time teacher to really try to invest my time into developing Sol. And I thought, “I’m building up my karmic bank account, but my financial bank account is a mess. I’m not making the best financial decisions.”

One night, I came across an ad where a nonprofit could win a car—a Toyota. And I remember thinking, “Oh, that’s funny—of all things.” It was probably midnight, and on a whim, I filled it out and told them our stories. And I got an email back saying that we made it to this online contest.

And Andru Defeye, [who was then Sol Collective’s communications director and is now Sacramento’s poet laureate] said, “Estella, you can win. This is so meant to be.” Long story short, we ended up winning a brand-new Toyota Highlander SUV that we used for the organization, which was pretty awesome. And it’s actually still being used by our admin, Ruby. It all comes back around some way.

And things eventually ended up falling into place for the collective.

I would say maybe around 10 years in, we became more financially sustainable. We put a strategic plan together. And I think it just took time for the community, the city and foundations to see that we had a track record. The impact we had in communities was very clear, and people started feeling way more comfortable giving us money and funding.

Those first 10 years were definitely a labor of love. I dreamt of a time when we would have a full-time staff, and when we would have artists and creatives being paid a wage that was comparable to other cities. This is why artists and activists leave our city—because it’s very hard to make a living doing this. So, in those early years, the conversation was about: How do we give people a living wage so that they can do this work in our community?

Can you cite some examples of the people or groups that Sol Collective works with?

One great example is Unseen Heroes, a creative agency doing amazing things across the city. [Founded by Roshaun and Maritza Davis, the firm has created community events like the NeighborGood Markets.] They were my neighbors and had a business that they were running out of their house, and I said, “Hey, we have a space. We’ll give you an office, and we could just trade—you guys can help us with feedback on what we’re doing.” So, they opened an office in Sol Collective, and they really blew up from there.

One current example is we have Yogi Homie. Her name is Veronica Bolds, and she is using the space to do her yoga classes, which are free, at Sol Collective. We’re able to support her work, and pay her for the work she’s doing, and help her get the equipment that’s needed so that yoga is accessible for the community. It has helped her develop and build her brand and give her an anchor location.

Another current example is Samuel Rose [co-founder of the soft goods production house Topstitch]. He has been one of our partners for years. He has a beautiful vision of helping people get started in sewing and the fashion industry in Sacramento and helping the next generation have a place to be able to learn to produce things locally. We recently worked with him, via grants, to get a group of BIPOC youth to learn the basics of sewing their [cultures’] traditional clothing and regalia with him.

We’ve incubated so many different creative businesses and people—musicians, artists, healers, activists—and they’re in our city doing big things and beautiful work, and I love that we have been a safe space to develop one’s craft.

In 2011, Sol Collective launched its annual Day of the Dead celebration—called Souls of the City—in Old Sacramento, which will take place this year on Oct. 21. How did it come to be?

We were looking for a way to have a place where the community could come and celebrate their loved ones, and really understand the idea of what Día de los Muertos is, and the way that we honor our ancestors.

Souls of the City is a partnership we created with the Sacramento History Museum, and not only is there the traditional Día de los Muertos ceremony with the Sacramento Aztec dance group Maquilli Tonatiuh, but we have art installations and cultural vendors, and other traditional and contemporary performers.

The traditional Día de los Muertos ceremony is one that is very beautiful, but it’s often closed to the community at large. Our intent was to open it up for community members who may not have been able to experience it, and to provide a communal way to celebrate and honor loved ones who have passed away. I think some of the parts that are most engaging are the community altars, where people bring pictures and items of loved ones who have passed away.

We’re also partnering with the Sacramento Lowrider Commission, which concurrently has a multimedia exhibit at the history museum [starting on Sept. 15] that we are co-curating, on the significance and impact of a lowriding culture in Sacramento. There’s also another exhibit with the Lowrider Commission that we’re co-curating at the California Museum, as well as one at Sol Collective [which are set to begin on Oct. 22 and Oct. 14, respectively]. And all of those exhibits open up during Día de los Muertos season this fall, and actually go on for the next few months. We’ll also have a few workshops in the month of October, including calavera face painting, paper flower and altar workshops.

The collective seems stronger than ever, but you’ve been transitioning out of your leadership role as executive director. What led to that decision?

I would say one selfish reason is just burnout. For 14 to 15 years straight, Sol Collective was my entire life. My kids grew up there, we would have dinner there. And I knew that that wasn’t sustainable. I think it’s very common for founders of nonprofits and organizations, so I began to look at different types of models.

Once we realized the space was going to go beyond myself and the founding members on the board, we had to really think through our organizational structure. So in the past three to four years, we’ve shifted from having myself as executive director to me being the cultural strategist, and moving toward a collective leadership. I’m helping with the overall strategy about where we go next and the impact that we want to have in the community.

And I really love the nonhierarchical, democratic models that I’ve seen in different nonprofits, and in different social justice groups around the country. We dove into learning about the different models and what could work for us.

We’re three years into [the transition] and we’re still figuring it out. But I love the idea of having something where everyone feels empowered. We’ve been around for 18 years now, and we have a healthy, sustainable budget, and we have full-time staff. So how do we keep the heart and soul and the energy that we’ve always had as a grassroots community organization as we grow up?

Our organization now is in a completely different place. We bought our building [in 2017]. I have six full-time staff getting paid well. I’m getting paid well. And we’re able to offer a very flexible and people-centered workspace.

We’ve come such a long way from being an all-volunteer organization. It took a long time, but we created what we always dreamt of having. 

This interview has been edited for length, flow and clarity.